


All the Light That is Given

by courflakes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courflakes/pseuds/courflakes
Summary: And the belief lasted for several months, and several months accumulated to a year, and then a whole west-facing wall is filled with tallies. Grantaire has forgotten his own face, forced himself to forget the names etched into his heart. Enjolras. Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Bahorel. Jehan. And the list goes on and on and on.Grantaire is held for ransom by the Patron-Minette. Five hundred and twenty six days later, the door opens.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmmm disclaimer alert: hearts out guns out,, get ready to get rekt

“Grantaire.” Enjolras says cautiously. His blue eyes are brimming with tears, and in a flinch of ceiling lights he could also see the smatter of congealed blood clinging to the side of his face. It comes to him with a startle that Grantaire has never actually _seen_ him cry before. He laughs breathily and it cracks, the sound echoing the empty room like a sickness. “Put the down the gun. _Please_ . Let’s talk. Combeferre is coming with the codes soon. _Put the gun down._ ”

“I-” Grantaire takes a deep breath. His hands are tremoring, thoughts going a mile a second.

 

He’s waited so long for this. The gun. It came through the chute today with only a note that allows him to use it as he pleases, the idea of a suicide only inferred. And at long last its onyx smoothness curls against Grantaire’s palm. It fits like a glove. The Patron-Minette has given up the ransom- or maybe it is the opposite- the ransom has been taken up. How else would Enjolras be here if not for that? But that cannot be true. Surely Les Amis couldn’t afford to give whatever leverage they managed to get their hands on, the fruit of many years of labor.

Maybe Babet has finally decided that Grantaire is an expendable, in which case he isn’t _wrong_ , and has dragged Enjolras for the show. Maybe it’s a form of twisted torture, a ticket to a bait hidden as a show. Grantaire’s final bow. He laughs again, but this time it sounds like a whimper against the sandpaper of his tongue.

This is it. _This is it._

The barrel rests against his temple. It is a soothing kind of coldness, albeit its macabre aspect. He lets his eyelids close.

 

“No, no. _No_!” Enjolras pounds the glass, it curves against the force of fists but flattens almost immediately, like the twang of a harpstring. “Grantaire! Look at me!”

 

Grantaire wants to tell him that there’s no use, that even if Claquesous isn’t coming to finish off Enjolras, he would still be stuck here. Days on end with no food and water, to have him hung on starvation then to feed him just enough and nothing more- then to drive him insane with hunger again. Days on end staring at vacant walls and watching crushed glass smatter against the whiteness of it. Grantaire can’t describe how even destruction was not enough. How the thunderous sound of it felt like nothing. How his palms still felt numb in the wake of deep cuts.

Back then he had a drive. Back then he believed help would come. Back then he could still picture an angelic face and cerulean eyes and a name. And golden curls that framed his face in the place of a halo. Back then he could still mimic the worried divot between his brows, still could mimic the radical patriotism in his voice. He could still name the troubles of capitalism, could still recite the Amendment. He could still remember the man who taught him how to live.

And the belief lasted for several months, and several months accumulated to a year, and then a whole west-facing wall is filled with tallies. Grantaire has forgotten his own face, forced himself to forget the names etched into his heart. _Enjolras. Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Bahorel. Jehan._ And the list goes on and on and on.

They stopped starving him then because he was doing the job for them. Grantaire’s bones jutted out in sharp edges, like he was a figurine carved out clumsily.

And then a razor is sent down so he could shave- which he did. Then he dismantled the blades with blunt, clumsy fingers and cut into his own skin, drawing out a tool. He missed paint. He missed its freedom of manipulation and expression, of remembrance and memories and maneuverability. So the wall was now not vacant, but a canvas. The names start to find a home against the plain surface. _Enjolras. Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Bahorel. Jehan._ And the list goes on and on and on. They take the form of crimson lettering.

Grantaire tried to remember the faces. Tried to personify the memories. He couldn’t. All he could see were blank walls. He didn’t want to forget, not the camaraderie and the excitement of the cause, but they fade anyway along with his faith. No matter how much he wanted otherwise.

 

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire says. There are tears marring his face now, tears tainting his cheeks. It is an echo of Enjolras’ own displays of grief- but maybe it is not. Maybe what he sees is desperation- a coaxing. He won't know, he's lost the sense of it long ago. Desperation makes him feel like a dog. Like a marionette with strings. He has cut it off.  “So sorry, _mon ami_.” There is a breath and a tremble, his own sob heaving in his chest.

 

Enjolras is not pounding the glass anymore, instead his palms are flat against it, fingers leaving marks of crimson as they slide down. Even if Grantaire cannot hear him clearly, he could see the upheavals of his chest, the boldness of his scarlet coat. The palms press against the bulletproof barrier like a prayer, like somehow it would dematerialize and he could slip through.

And even then what is he to do? Grantaire is broken and bent. The years to come cannot fix the years he has lost. The years he has spent. This troubling stir of his mind, the sinister, betraying thoughts, will not go away. They will remain as an aftertaste of imprisonment. Even the sweetness of freedom cannot wash it away.

 

“Why?” Enjolras says. His voice is still the same; melodious. There is a light stubble dusting his jawline, and his curls are cut short in a way that is more jarring than it is supposed to be. Waves of memories come in missiles. Suddenly the faces are as clear as day. _Enjolras. Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Bahorel. Jehan._ And the list goes on and on and on. “Why, Grantaire?” He repeats. Softer.

“I don’t believe.” Grantaire manages to force out. The tears blur his vision and he presses the barrel firmer against his temple, the ridges digging into his skin. Enjolras is a red and gold figure in the distance. “Not anymore.”

 

Enjolras stiffens, jaw turning rigid. The fire in his eyes prompts him.

 

“In what?” His voice is biting, almost seething. He is daring him to say it. His eyes turn cold. Grantaire wants to smile at the forgotten verve, like he is falling in love all over again. At least one of them hasn’t changed.

 

But the warmth isn’t there. There is only wonder. Enjolras feels like a stranger, like a distorted memory. All of them are. And what can Grantaire do with that?

 

“In you.” He finishes. And as he shifts his finger closes on the trigger. His touch is resting against the lifeline.

“No, no. _Stop_!” Enjolras calls.

And oddly, Grantaire does, and he doesn't know why he's listening. Like the voice is a long forgotten beacon. With a shake of relief Enjolras stills, shoulders drawn back and palms curled to fists once again.

 

Grantaire and him share a look, something profound and full of reminiscence. He wants to speak, until another gun comes to view.

It is Enjolras’, and in one identical movement he rests the barrel onto his own scalp. He breathes, like the tension weighs a thousand boulders and not the gentle touch of the mouth of a gun. Grantaire’s throat goes dry.

 

“I will make you believe.” He assures, blue eyes like ignited fire. Not kindling, but raging. Deep like embers and a hearth. He says it in a way that makes Grantaire believe that he could, but the feeling goes away a quickly as it comes. Old habits.

“What will you do?” Grantaire laughs, the sound resonates in the room. Enjolras’ face falls for a moment, but regains composure. “Die with me? _Grand_. Claquesous is coming. The deed will be done soon enough.”

“ _Claquesous_?” Enjolras’ tone goes dangerously low. He glowers. It sends a cold, running shiver down the base of Grantaire’s spine. “Claquesous is dead. Every last one of them follows.”

 

The hold of his own gun falters, and the grounding contact of the barrel leaves his temple momentarily. Something flits across Grantaire’s features, something even _he_ does not understand, and Enjolras’ lips twitch in satisfaction.

 

“You don’t kill.” Grantaire shakes his head. “You never kill.”

 

It is true. Murder is against Enjolras’ policy. As a man of morals, he believes in mercy more than he would admit, more than what was good for him. It didn’t matter how dirty the crimes go, how twisted Les Amis’ plans tend to become. Lives are endangered, but they are never lost. Never because of them.

Enjolras killed. And he killed because of _Grantaire_.

 

“And you remember.” He concludes.

“I almost forgot your names.” Grantaire glances behind him, at the wall covered in words. Enjolras traces his turn of attention, looking at the bloody mess as if he is seeing it for the first time. “I forgot your face.”

“Then look at me.” Enjolras breathes out, glance still lingering on the walls. But his gaze is softer than ever, hiding behind no foreignness. Like he still remembers Grantaire, like he could still recall the way it feels when his fingers skim across his shoulders, like the memory is not distant. “Grantaire. _Look at me._ ” The tone is so full of affection. It sounds so unfamiliar, and it makes his heart ache.

 

But years can change a man, and Grantaire is not sure that Enjolras would love him still.

And what was he to do then?

But Grantaire does look at him anyway, because his conscience still betrays him, and the desperation he thought he has gotten rid of is stirring to life. Enjolras’ forehead is resting against the glass, the gun now drawn up the side of his scalp along with the blood. He is noticeably skinnier, not even lithe but bony. Like the effects of Grantaire’s isolation has resonated in him as well. Like they are a conjoined being. Enjolras’ eyelids are fluttered close, and they open as if he could sense that Grantaire’s gaze has fallen on him. The corner of his lips slide up, and he is giving the slightest of smiles. It depicts fragility more than anything. Reassurance.

Something stirs in his chest, something long forgotten. It is warm, and it is suffocating, and it makes his heart palpitate. Grantaire shakes his head. Now is not the time to be foolish. His thoughts are only wishful, and he knows now how important it is to tether himself to reality, not to let the ties tangle or float. The four walls have taught him so.

 

“What are you going to do?” Grantaire paces forward, knees buckling with every step. His body does not remember movement, not since he retired himself to the corner of the room, facing the wall. The window made him feel like an animal, displayed for exhibition. For weeks he hasn’t moved, only to retrieve the basic necessities from the chute. And of course, the gun.

 

Grantaire comes close enough that he could rest his own palm against the glass if he wanted to, if he would only reach out. The golden streaks of Enjolras’ hair becomes more visible now, the hitch of his shoulders and the unprecedented looseness of the scarlet coat. The striking blues of his eyes. And he does reach out, settling his hand over Enjolras’ own, resenting the knobble of his fingers. The warmth of another body feels like a scald. He retracts almost immediately. Enjolras frowns.

 

“What are you going to do?” He repeats. The closer he leaned, the more his breath fogs up the glass. Enjolras looks up like he has forgotten the question. “If I get out? What will you do then? What can _I_ do then?”

“You act like it’s going to be the end of the world.” Enjolras huffs out a laugh. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?" His attention flickers to the tallies scrawled on the walls. "Approximately five hundred and twenty six days. And in five hundred twenty of them, we have been plotting. Restlessly. Seemingly infinitely. We tracked and killed and interrogated.” His expression stirred somber. “Jehan passed out in the first few weeks. He wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. Getting into fights. And Montparnasse, he’s helping, you know.” Something flickers and his voice creaks. “We’re  _all_ helping, Grantaire. And what are you doing?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t respond. He closes his eyes and listens. The throbbing in his chest worsens.

 

“You’re going to kill yourself?” Enjolras stops. “Did you think we were going to leave you here?” A look of realization falls upon him like a wisp of fog, fleeting and barely there. Grantaire turns away, his eyes stinging.“You thought we were going to leave you here.” Then his voice turns indignant, his fists clenching. His tone gives away to the rumble of frustration. “We’ve spent years trying to find you. We’ve taken more gigs to get the funds.”

“Bahorel lost an eye.” Enjolras continues after a pause, hesitation laced in his voice. He doesn't know whether telling Grantaire would help or worsen the situation.

Grantaire passes a hand over his lips, pressing his fingers against them. He bites his tongue, bites the inside of his cheek. Unconsciously he shifts marginally away. “Joly has to use a cane now. _Courfeyrac_ doesn’t speak. Don’t you see how much we care? Don’t you realize that we will help with your recovery?” Then he adds with the same tone of doubt. "If ever you need it."

 

Grantaire slides to the ground, thoughts now running miles and miles a second. Gingerly he turns and his back is met with the floor-to-ceiling glass, cool like a balm.

Grantaire wants to ask what happened. What made them sacrifice what they did, what drove them to. And do they still remember Grantaire the same way he has? The way it has always been, or the version of distortion? Do they care about the altered or unaltered?

But he is scared of the answers. He is scared that he wouldn’t forgive himself  for it. The barrel passes over Grantaire’s forehead, now pointing at empty air as he presses the heels of his hands firmly against his eyes.

 

“Five hundred and twenty six days, and here we are.” Enjolras clutches the gun tighter. “Now what, Grantaire?” He whispers.

 

No answer comes to mind, but the question repeats itself like a broken tape record. _Now what_? _Now what_? He doesn’t know, but the guilt digs into his heart like a knife, slowly but surely reaching new depths.

 

“I’ve-” Enjolras swallows thickly. “I’ve given up everything for you.” Then comes an inhibited, gut-wrenching sob. The sound echoes in Grantaire’s ears and the tears lining his own cheeks follows. He keeps pressing his palms against them, presses until he sees white and nothing more. “ _Please_. Please don’t.”

 

The genuity is so familiar it hurts. The care, the comfort. But above all it _scares_ him. How has Enjolras remained the same while Grantaire is someone entirely new?

Then something jolts. It takes a cautious slide of his eyes and some bated breaths before he realizes that it is only Combeferre throwing the door open, another old face, sporting a crimson gash across his cheek and a trickle of blood below the lobe of his ear.

His eyes trains and rake over Enjolras in half a second, and it takes him only a horrified yell and a push before Enjolras is knocked to the floor and the gun is wrenched out of his spasming grip. Others run inside at the sound, emanating through the darkness of the hallway that Grantaire has forgotten exists. He recognises Feuilly and Jehan and Bahorel, their faces coming in bursts of recognition. For a moment all he wants is to get out. To join them.

Then he notices a black patch over Bahorel’s eyes, expression alight at the sight of Grantaire hunched over his own knees, but a hand planted firmly on his bleeding side. Jehan is supporting his weight despite being a full head shorter, gasping an unabashed, breathy sob when he fixates his stare on the glass.

Combeferre is deterred momentarily as he throws the gun to the other end of the room, only stilling a while to marvel like the others, but continues to draw Enjolras up into an embrace.

 

“Grantaire!” Feuilly cries. His grin of relief is familiar. Jehan’s arm under Bahorel’s weight tightens in consolation. “You-We found you!” Disbelief marks the end of his speech.

“Get him out.” Enjolras grabs Combeferre’s shoulders. Grantaire could see the tremor in his movements. “Right now. _Get him out._ ”

The room stiffens at the urgency. Five hundred and twenty six days, surely a few minutes can be spared? 

Then something shifts in the air as it clicks. Grantaire doesn't know who notices first, who murmurs next.

“Grantaire.” Bahorel’s voice is cautious, as cautious as when Enjolras had first stepped into the room. He catches the onyx glint of the firearm in his hands. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire sobs. His fingers curl. “I _can’t_.”

“Grantaire.” Feuilly is the first to register and the first to press himself against the glass. His brown hair takes the form of long, flattened curls. Much longer than the way he usually kept it. His blue eyes are wide. “Grantaire. Listen to me- _Combeferre, the code, now_!”

 

At once Combeferre is a flurry of movement, leaving Enjolras on the floor as he hunches over the keypad, fingers flying across the numbers that seem to drag on and on and on.

 

“No.” Grantaire pleads. “ _No_.”

 

He draws the gun to his temple, fixes it firmly. It is as cool as it always is. He takes a breath.

The room explodes into a menagerie of sounds. It rouses and envelops. Fists are pounding against glass. Jehan is right behind Combeferre. Feuilly is sputtering a series of tightly-strung sentences, hastily procured. _We’re here, we’re here, we’re here. It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright._ Bahorel leaves a dozen imprints of scarlet on the glass.

Grantaire is filled with guilt. Filled with guilt and so much more. It pins him to the floor, and it makes him float. 

A door long untouched is scraping open. The tether is broken. Enjolras is scrambling to his feet. An echo of footsteps follows, an arm grabs to aid.

Grantaire looks into the striking blue eyes and smiles crookedly. He is looking right back, frozen in place. Frozen in time.

 

"Take care of him." He says to no one in particular. His voice is drowned by the impertinent yells. He isn't sure anybody hears him. But the blue eyes widen in horror. "Take care of him for me." 

 

Five hundred and twenty six days, and here he is. What now?

 

“ _Grantaire_!” Enjolras’ voice is urgent. A trigger tightens. The Earth spins in its axis. This is now. “ _No-_ ”


	2. All the Light that Goes Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. this took a while! (the epilogue is actually longer than the original) but i'm finally done with my exams so here it is!!

Grantaire can still remember the first day.

He was a fighter, a thrasher, a step-closer-and-I’ll-bite you. He had fire in his heart and hope in his eyes and snares on his tongue. He sank his teeth into Babet’s arm as he threw him around the room until he could taste blood. Babet would leave him with bruises, Gueulemer with bruises that scarred. Claquesous held him down until there were scars shaped like fingernails deep in his skin. It was really more torture than interrogation, which was what they liked to call it. Until the smirks on their faces come unhinged and Grantaire stumbles onto his feet to land what he could on three men. Sometimes he got away with a cut lip, other times a punch in the jaw or a kick in the crotch. But always,  _ always _ , Grantaire would end up on his knees, and the satisfaction on their shark-like grins come once more. 

The Patron-Minette didn’t have half a mind to cuff him, and they didn’t need to. Grantaire liked to refer to the confines he was kept in as the exhibition room. It was spacious enough for him to walk around, but the space only reminded him of the limits that they hold. Like freedom nipped at the bud. Like agitation pent up. Like a caged bird. It made him go insane. 

In addition, the room was stark and exposed enough for him to feel uncomfortable. The whole south facing wall was made of a thick pane of bulletproof glass. The fear crept up his throat no matter how hard he tried to push it down to the pits of his stomach, how hard he tried to mask it with jitters. There were times, of course, that belonged to privacy. Times when Grantaire tried to conjure the thought of Les Amis and failed, wanting nothing more than to relieve the sting of his eyes. But the surveillance camera winked red, as if reminding him of the predators behind the screen.  _ You’re being watched! _ The eye seemed to say.  _ Watched! Watched! _ And Grantaire would swallow what he could until he couldn’t anymore. It was only then he faced away.

When the Patron-Minette realized Grantaire was too loyal for his own good, mouth sewn shut by courage or idiocy -who can tell, nowadays-, they resorted to the joys of keeping a pet. 

Grantaire was what kept them entertained.

He could remember, just as clearly as his first day, the first marking. It had been quiet just earlier in the hour. It was morning, and he could tell by the way the room lit up with the buzz of lighting. That small routine was his only perception of time. 

Grantaire was staring at the walls, the sudden flare of light still fogging most of his perception. Then a scraping noise was sounded, too early than usual, and from the deft corner of his eyes he could see the doors open. His chest responded in the way it always did: sparking with hope, then seized by fear until it consumed all that he could think of- if a blinding blare of white could be put into feeling, that would be it.

Gueulemer steps inside first, thin lips twisting unattractively into a scowl, towering body ambling forwards like even he was not used to so much musculature. This wasn’t a surprise, at least. Gueulemer was always the one used like a shield. But this time, he wasn’t only equipped with a pair of signature brass knuckle rings. In his hand was a bucket, and from the bucket protruded a thin rod with red handles. Babet and Claquesous emerged from behind him, striding fast instead of jeering and taking their time. In only a moment Grantaire was pushed to the floor, caught off guard, scalp forced down onto the tiles by a pair of hands, and legs pinned down by another.

He couldn’t see anything but Babet’s smug face, like he knew something Grantaire didn’t, urging Gueulemer to hurry. The bucket clanged down by his head. A pair of hands lifted his shirt up to his sharp ribs, and he flailed and kicked as he reflexively feared for the worst, until he caught sight of the rod being extracted, and something red blazed impertinently against the whiteness of the room, its mere proximity heating the side of his face.

It dawned on him like a bucket of ice sliding down his spine, and a spark of suffocating fear settled over his chest, like the tug of a rug. He kicked with more urgency and screamed with more panic. But he hasn’t eaten for two days and he felt the most tired he’s ever been, so the strong hands dug into his skin with no struggle, hooking onto him like he was a piece of meat, like an animal, and Grantaire couldn’t do anything about it.

Then the hot iron came down onto his skin, and with a jolt the world turned white as his back arched from the cool tiles of the floor.

He screamed, and screamed, until he didn’t feel like he was screaming. Until the ringing in his ears enveloped everything else and everything sounded primal. For a moment he sounded inhumane, for a moment he didn’t even recognise his own voice. It sounded hoarse and painful, interlaced with hitching sobs. The pain scored through him easily, like a hot knife through butter, unprecedented and searing. 

And on and on and on the scalding went. Stretching as if it had no end. Until the hands that held him down were no more, until the doors screamed shut again and the fabric of his tattered shirt fell onto the wound, feeling as though the fabric itself was another form of torture when the fraying threads caught into the flesh. It hurt. The throb of skin surrounding the mark, the char of it, the tightness of his eyelids and the way his bitten-down fingernails drew blood from his own palms. It hurt in more ways Grantaire could have expected it to hurt.

His body was strung tight on the floor and his shirt was riding up his back, lying still as desperation pleaded for the pain to subside, desperate to hinder anything from even touching the branding. If he moved the skin of his stomach would fold, if he sat up he could see it. He didn’t want to. He never wanted to.

But Grantaire had to tunnel his eyes on  _ something _ . Or else his mind would lose focus and he’d drift into the empty limbo of unconsciousness, and who knew what they’d do to him then? He could see his own writhing figure in the reflection of the glass, both sides of his face stricken with tears and chest still heaving with sobs that sounded more like stutters of a plea. The paleness of his skin was exposed, along with bruises and scars closer to rupturing than healing. Right above his hip bone a new mark stood proudly, like it was embossed. The wound was cauterized and charred black, the flesh around it a mottle of irritated red. It was two letters looped together, elegant if not for the gruesomeness of it. 

_ P-M.  _

And Grantaire’s stomach lurched.

He didn’t turn away from the cameras that night. The familiar red surveillance light blinked in contempt and mockery, the only thing visible in total catatonic darkness. The voice came back. 

_ Watched! Watched! _

And Grantaire let them.

 

Some days he could see wisps of things, ghosts of memories, trails of consciousness seemingly in the flesh. Grantaire’s mind is hazy. The industrial lighting muddles with the grout of the tiles, the lines of his fingers blurring with the vacant walls. Everything is hot, searing white. An intruder to his throbbing head. Sometimes he could see telltale bronze skin and a pair of square glasses sitting on the floor. Sometimes he could see a Walt Whitman book splayed open on the tiles, burgundy spine cracking. He could hear a smooth, light voice calling out after reading every prose aloud:  _ That! That’s the work of a genius! _ Then a thundering laugh and muscled arms, a good-hearted clap on shoulders, a mess of black curls.

Sometimes, in the worst times, he could see a head of spun gold, a red coat stretched seamlessly over broad shoulders. A tinkling laugh that sends warmth down his chest and a lot more, smooth hands trailing against Grantaire’s cheeks, action well-meaning and fond. An endearing whisper in a dark room. A flickering candle flame. A hum of a familiar song. And when the figure turns around he is met with blue. Blue something. Blue  _ shining _ . 

As the days go by the figures get more and more blurred. The glasses are rounded instead of squared. Have they always been that way? Are they brown or black? The title on the book is worn, the cover is pale and translucent and questionable. The laugh disappears. His ears ring with the buzz of static. And no matter how many times he murmurs “ _Mon_ _ange_?” under his slurring breaths, the head of spun gold doesn’t turn around. 

Reality is something hard to differentiate. Most days his head is pounding and his thoughts are altercating until another gallon of water is sent down. It tastes vile, odd. Only one of them in a week. Two if they’re feeling generous. After awhile it just tastes transparent on his tongue.

Yes, he blames it on dehydration. Unabashedly.

But illusions don’t just come from nothing.

 

It is the smooth hum that comes to mind first. Soft. Thrumming like warmth.

What follows is a patter of unhurried footfalls pacing against tiles. Disappearing and reappearing like an oscillation. The hum follows it, swaying here and there. Grantaire listens to the gentle lilts, pays attention to the way it melts the stiffness in his bones, the rigidity he hasn’t realized is there. It is tranquil. 

There is something soft and flowy under him, cool and fluid like water. His fingers curl around the feeling, taking hold on- fabric, he realizes. Downy cotton. Or maybe quilt. He isn’t sure but it smells distinctly of rosewood and a type of detergent that tickles his nose.

The hum pauses. There is an unidentifiable sharp intake of breath, then an unmistakable voice. The air erupts with overlapping murmurs, then abruptly, like water to a flame, hushes and dies.

“Grantaire?” It is a honeyed voice. The room stills. Everyone waits on bated breath.

Then Grantaire, as if drawn to the calling of his name, opens his eyes.

The starkness of the room is blinding, and for a moment he is met with bleariness and nothing more. A crown of arraying white light sits circular in his vision, glowing then receding in a breath. It gives away to a dimmer orb of light- a ceiling bulb, he realizes. It is more yellow than white, casting warmth. He sucks in a breath that sounds parched, like a revival or a recalling, then ends in a chain of hoarse coughs. His tongue feels like sand and his mouth tastes even worse. 

A pair of footsteps comes forward and a glass is thrusted gently into his hands, with somebody guiding his fingers to close around the container. The bed is reclined and in a whirr the mattress guides him to sit upright, his spine stiff and unrelenting at the change of position. The glass feels cool against the heat of a palm.

Grantaire startles, more disconcerted than anything, at the touch of skin against skin. A sound is made from the back of his throat as he jolts away, it sounds a lot like trepidation. The glass falls over the edge of the bed, water tipping onto the quilt and the rest crashing far below. The wetness seeps onto his skin in mere seconds, but not before mottling the fabric strewn across his lap with patches of dark green, standing proudly in contrast with the rest of its olive expanse.

The warmth- it feels too foreign, too unnatural. Like an offense. For the longest of times- well, for the longest of times..

His head pounds, a thousand hazy memories come crashing like a barrage of pain. For a moment Grantaire thinks he has short-circuited. It blows the air out of his chest, out of his lungs. It takes a deep stab at his stomach.

For the longest of times contact meant nothing more than violence. A threat, a singular promise of harm. He remembers Patron-Minette and their scowling, jeering faces. Babet. Gueulemer. Claquesous. Their grips and chokeholds ghosts over the scarring on his body- or rather the scarring that he  _ thinks _ is there. But the memory seems so distant he could swear it had all been a dream. Five hundred and twenty six days. The coarse handle of a gun.

He should be  _ dead _ .

Grantaire, breaths now bitten short, tugs away the quilt so forcefully that the person standing by the bed has taken a step back. It is soft in his hands and he longs for the comfort, the familiar scent of rosewood and something minty, but he has to make sure. He  _ has _ to. 

It is revealed that he has on something plain. A type of shirt, casual but made of thin fabric. It is colored in subdued maroon and is a size too big for him- reminds him of something- no,  _ someone _ . He pushes the thought back. It clutters the back of his mind now. His fingers bunch over the hem of it, pulling it upwards and-

There it is. Same as it always has been. His skin, though it has gained more color than he remembered it, bears a mark. A branding. _ P-M _ , over the jut of his hipbone. It still looks charred, no matter how much time has gone by, like it is going to be permanently painful- and in a way it  _ will _ . Grantaire’s breath lurches, and his anxious hands grapple for the cuff of the grey sweatpants he has on. His left ankle  up to the lower portion of his calf seems to be encased in a cast, professionally wrapped. His attention lingers on it only momentarily before he continues. It is pushed to the back of his mind as well. 

Another tug and on the skin spanning above the cast can be seen showcasing an assortment of lashes, ones that are half a meter long, then whittled with sparks of burn marks. It trails upwards, and when he reaches his thighs there is another branding. Behind the curve of his knee another stands proudly- the last one he ever got. 

Something burns across his stomach, as if the sight of it has revived the pain. A part of him had warmed to the thought of the years being fake- an illusion of an illusion. But now that the evidence has been laid out so starkly, he cannot be mistaken.

There are fingers reaching out for his trembling hands. They are unsure, hesitant but arched so elegantly. Grantaire, despite the pandemonium that takes up his chest in a storm, jerks away in haste. He would have fallen off the bed if it wasn’t for the railings affixed there. His eyes snap up, and he meets a blue, dejected gaze.

“It’s okay.” A head of spun gold shimmers under the touch of mellow sunlight. Enjolras retracts his hands and offers a crooked smile. “You’re okay.” The words seem like an attempt to assure himself.

“The glass-” Grantaire stutters pathetically. His voice is as scratchy as his throat feels. It turns wobbly in a matter of seconds, and his eyes are stinging like nettles have been rubbed against them. Enjolras’ smile falters. “I- the water is everywhere.” The words crack on his tongue. “I’m sorry.” It holds more meaning than one. He ducks his head before the droplets could spill against his hollowed cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey-” In a matter of seconds Enjolras is by his side again. This time his palm is tentative, offering consolation. It is only when Grantaire leans towards him that he allows himself to make the contact. “Grantaire.”

The gentle fingers span over his shoulder blade, then traverses down the arch of his back. It feels natural, right in all the possible ways. Grantaire cannot believe he has been deprived of- of  _ this _ , for so long. He doesn’t know how he survived, how he could be so foolish to even consider the bullet before one last moment of  _ this _ .

Grantaire slots himself in the crook of Enjolras’ neck, fingers latching onto the front of his shirt. Enjolras tucks him there, his other hand weaving through his black curls, smoothing over his scalp. Grantaire can feel the bob of his throat as he swallows, and the fall of his chest as he breathes out. Content.  
“It’s alright.” Enjolras coaxes, the fingers on Grantaire’s back grips fractionally tighter, then releases. “It’s alright, now.”

“Enjolras.” He chokes out, almost a warble. The syllables are foreign but familiar on his lips at the same time. 

“That’s right.” Grantaire could hear the inklings of a smile in his voice. His head dips to hold him against his cheek as his eyes spark alight. He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m so relieved.”

Grantaire remembers now, a memory painted in entirely different colors. Enjolras with his temple pressed against the glass, the barrel of a gun against the side of his head. Enjolras’ blue eyes crying, frame bony, golden curls matted. Enjolras in Combeferre’s arms, urging, instructing him to input the code. Enjolras looking at him from the ground, eyes transfixed, eyes pleading. An echo.  _ Take care of him for me. _ Then the deafening blow of a gun.  _ No- _

 

A blow of a gun that was not his own, because  _ he _ didn’t pull his trigger.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire swallows, then he withdraws from the embrace. Enjolras lets him go with a quiver in his lips. “What happened?”

For a moment Enjolras’ brows from a divot at the question, as if he couldn’t recall anything that happened subsequent to their reunion. Then the hand on Grantaire’s shoulder eases and slips away.

He glances behind him, where the entire Les Amis sat draped over two large sofas. Feuilly had his hands clasped together, and his grin widened when Grantaire’s eyes met his. Jehan had a hand on his kneecap, sharing a twinning look of relief in his eyes. Joly and Bossuet, who only comes to their headquarters when needed, sports a stethoscope slung around his neck and a notepad in the other’s hands respectively. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were the only ones standing, in each other’s embraces. The latter nodded when Enjolras gave him a raise of his eyebrows, giving permission.

“Combeferre-” Enjolras gestured to the man, who raised a hand in greeting. “-he shot you before you could-” The blonde’s eyes dropped to the floor and his lips stretched thin. He takes a breath. “Before you could-” Courfeyrac darts out of Combeferre’s arms to offer consolation, but he holds him back. 

Enjolras raises his eyes to meet Grantaire’s, and for a moment he feels a staggering pang of guilt, of regret, before he feels a pair of hands reaching for his own, intertwining their fingers. 

“He shot your calf to startle you, so you could drop the gun.” Enjolras continues. “And you did. Promptly, you blacked out. It’s been three days now. I don’t think it was because of the shot, though surely it was a contributing factor. You were extremely dehydrated.” He purses his lips at the thought. But then he grips Grantaire tighter. “Combeferre didn’t hit anywhere important, don’t worry. You know he never misses.”

“Damn right I don’t.” Combeferre mutters behind them. Grantaire laughs out something airy and breathless. How long has it been for him to forget how to laugh? Nobody pays any mind to the odd sound, instead they chime in. Combeferre grins.“And I’m sorry, R. It ‘s gonna scar but we didn’t have any other choice.” 

“It’s alright.” Grantaire reassures. But the tail end of it, the  _ I’m glad you did _ , remains unsaid.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras says once the laughter dies down. Grantaire is forced to look into blue eyes once again, but instead of being full of mirth like the others, it contains something like indignancy. “If you don’t mind me asking-” Enjolras lets out a breath, and his hand lets go of Grantaire’s to rest on the patch of bedding near his calves. He stills. “What-” Grantaire could see the contemplation in his stance, the way it is rigid. “What happened? What did they do to you?”

Now it is Grantaire’s turn to hesitate. Acknowledging what happened- what he has been freed from- is one thing. Verbally confirming it is another. Saying it aloud would mean giving the memories more power, recognition and attention. Grantaire can’t do that. Not now, at least. He wouldn’t be able to handle the looks of pity, the frowns, the anger. Not because the Patron-Minette was undeserving of Les Amis’ rage. Hell, they deserved that and  _ more _ . But Grantaire didn’t want the sad eyes to be looking at him like that, not until he was ready for more questions. Until he could sort out the truths and illusions in his head.

Enjolras must have seen the deliberation because he quickly jumped in. “Not unless you want to, of course.”

“I’ll tell you.” Grantaire assures. At this Enjolras’ blue eyes sparks. “Soon.” He adds. The spark doesn’t go any dimmer. 

“Take your time.” He grins, satisfied with the answer. In the background Jehan coos and Feuilly elbows his side.

“Well then, is anyone gonna get him another glass of water or what?”

All of their attention switches to the hobbling man in the doorway, black corkscrew curls draping across his sharp cheekbones and framing his smiling face. Feuilly shoots up from the sofa and is by his side at once, gentle hands resting on his hips in order to avoid the bandages on the man’s side, guiding him in the room. 

“Bahorel.” Grantaire greets in relief. He is ashamed to admit that he didn’t realize his absence until now. 

“Sleeping beauty.” Bahorel regards him with a bark of laughter, later wincing as he doubles over. Feuilly snickers at his foolishness and bends down to deliver a peck on his cheek.

“Can you not? I don’t want to do the stitches again.” Joly grumbles from the couch, draped over Bossuet. “For the third time. In three days.”

“A cut by a knife, a couple of inches.” Enjolras explains when he sees Grantaire’s inquiring look. He doesn’t say  _ whose _ knife, and Grantaire has to give him merit for that.

“I tell him he needs bedrest and he becomes a worm on a hot pan.” Joly grumbles as Bossuet hides his laugh on his shoulder, tugging him closer.

“I’ll get the water.” Courfeyrac declares. Then he fixes Grantaire a sly grin and a wink. “And perhaps something stronger after that.”

Simultaneously, Enjolras screams an adamant  _ ‘no’ _ as Grantaire sighs a desperate  _ ‘hell yes’ _ . For a moment all he could taste on his tongue was the ghosting of strong liquor, until the blonde turns to him incredulously and shoots off a never ending list of health cons, hands gesticulating and tone stern like a reprimanding mother. All the while Bossuet hesitantly inputs that taking a bit of whiskey  _ might _ ease some of the pain of a bullet wound, to which Enjolras yells wildly ‘ _ that’s why we have fucking morphine, for the love of god. _ ’

Grantaire can see Courfeyrac disappearing around the doorway without so much as a whisper, but Enjolras catches the movement and chases him through the headquarters, sputtering out warnings and threats. Their footsteps grow more rapid until something crashes and Courfeyrac gives out a terrified yelp, then the room dissolves into cackles.

Grantaire’s heart swells as he realizes how much he’s missed them all. He grips the damp quilt in his palms.

And all their names are freshly etched in his heart again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not so bad right? i decided to spare myself the heartbreak and make the end enjoyable for us all. thanks for sticking with this thing!! if you wanna keep up with more of my works, just follow my thread: 'A String of Enjoltaire'. I plan on bringing many many more AUs for these cuties.
> 
> again!! please comment and kudos!! i would love to hear what yall think!! my tumblr is enjolraze, if you wanna give it a follow.
> 
> 'til next time! ;)))


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